


Dragon in a Psychic Cage

by gingersmitten



Category: Street Fighter
Genre: M/M, Medical Kink, Medical Torture, Mind Rape, Psychological Torture, Rape, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22042234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingersmitten/pseuds/gingersmitten
Summary: Ryu has been defeated and captured by M. Bison (AKA Vega).  In the dungeons of the Shadaloo, Ryu endures the unique tortures that only Bison can perform.  Will he survive?
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	1. The Chair

**Author's Note:**

> Woof this is quite a find. A reader commissioned this story from me back in like 2013, and I wrote it in accordance to his request to fictionalize this scene from Street Fighter 2 Alpha:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Ji1c5P7tho
> 
> Just did a little minor editing here and there rather than a more vigorous rewrite, so expect chapters to come quickly.
> 
> WARNING: This story depicts scenes of rape and psychic torture for kinky porn purposes. Please practice safe consensual sex IRL and communicate clearly. Also if you don't have psychic powers please don't use them for evil thank you.

_**Name:** Ryu (surname unknown)_

_**Age:** 18 (?)_

_**Height:** 170 cm_

_**Weight:** 68 kg_

_**Ethnicity:** Japanese_

_**Cardiac Performance:** HR 40; BP 109/71_

_**Atherholt Trauma Score:** 0.92_

_**Thermal Tolerance:** 4 to 52 * C_

_\--- Inflammatory factors & hematologic analyses listed in index B03 ---_

_\--- Specimen History ---_

_**150129-052833:** Captured subject examined under heavy sedation. Exceptional muscle tone and tendon elasticity for specimen of estimated age, indicating great physical strength, endurance, and flexibility. Physical examination showed heavy bruising and swelling along left side, right cheek, right wrist, left leg as a result of recent combat trauma. Features pallid. Blood pressure was 60/32, required transfusion of 2 liters of plasma to stabilize. Radiological scans indicate high bone density as well as history of compound fractures in all extremities as well as along the rib cage and skull, indicative of long history of combat trauma._

_**150129-120241:** Subject stabilized. Surgically repaired compound fracture of seventh and eighth ribs along right side as well as punctured lung. Exploratory surgery and blood tests showed massive organ damage. Placed in medical coma and sustained on supportive care in regeneration tank to aid in recovery._

_**150208-113921:** Subject removed from regeneration tank. Majority of wounds fully healed. Previous scar tissue resolved by 98.2%_

_**150209-025648:** Subject initially kept on on anesthetic L22 at dosage of 0.12 mg/minute. Semi-lucid and partially aware of surroundings. At 012156, subject expressed sudden outburst and attempted to break free. Was held down and injected with anesthetic L22 at estimated dosage of 10 mg. Subject lingered for two minutes before he slowly lost consciousness. Dosage increased to 0.25 mg/minute. Remains semi-lucid, but still requires ankle and wrist restraints. Recommend addition of anesthetic P08 at dosage of 0.05 mg/minute to keep subject docile._

_**150211-194712:** Subject placed under reconditioning with L22 at 0.18 mg/minute and P05 at 0.03 mg/minute. Preliminary Atherholt Trauma Function Test indicates exceptionally high threshold for pain, while thermal exposure tests showed high resilience to heat and cold. Neurocognitive reconditioning started with Level 4 intensity. Subject resisted with ferocious willpower. Intensity adjusted in increments of 0.2 every 10 minutes until at Level 12. Subject continues to resist at redline threshold. Further attempts at neurocognitive adjustment not recommended: at required intensity levels, neurolytic cascade is highly likely, leading to either fatality or lobotomization._

_Bison_

I pore over the thick sheaf of records. Blood tests. Kidney function tests. Brain scans. X-rays. Every inch and orifice had been probed. Every scar and scrape had been catalogued. The chart of stress hormone levels snags my attention, and for a while I scan the list looking for the slightest blip, the barest hint of the boy beginning to break.

Through the inch-thick ballistic glass, just out of the corner of my eye, I watch Ryu writhe in the chair. The IV drip keeps him fed and hydrated for the duration. His _gi_ had been pulled open, with pads and electrodes pressed to his body to monitor his vitals. On the first two fingers of each hand and on each large toe a metal cup had been attached... electricity courses through them in crackling pulses, piercing the sensitive bundles of nerves beneath the nail beds. Wires feed into the metal band around his temples like a dozen black tendrils.

The pain is supposed to open him up to the mind probe, yet even as the psychic energy crackles around him in a storm of blue-white flashes, he resists. Ryu's jaw is clenched firmly into a rictus, lips peeled back and revealing teeth white and glistening like a rabid dog's. His eyes are wide, pupils shrunken into points. His full, muscular chest heaves as he struggles with each breath, sweat glistening like glassy jewels against his lightly bronzed skin.

I've watched many grown men broken by the chair, the probe carving deep into their souls like a dentist's drill, scooping out their individuality, their essence, like so much rotted filth. What replaces it is clean and rigid, a program of total obedience. The process of psychic vivisection is agonizing: the mind is flayed, the veins and sinews of thought and spirit bared. Yet afterwards, numb as they are to the world now, my sweet little pets are grateful for it... gratitude is part of the program, after all.

Yet this one... this _boy_... resists.

“Enough,” I gesture to the researchers. This intensity had broken the strongest of men: reduced the toughest soldiers to meek little lambs, if they hadn't been killed outright. That he's lasted this long without a massive cranial bleed is remarkable enough, but all conventional efforts had been useless. The labworkers look up from their charts and graphs momentarily, but quickly obey. The hum of electricity grows quiet. The tempest of blue and white energy vanishes. For a moment Ryu shudders as the pain recedes, then slumps into the chair.

It will be a while still before he rouses. The electroshock therapy had stunned him... he'd taken three full doses at five hundred volts through his brain before he stopped struggling. The muscle relaxants and sedatives need to be dialed down for him to fully wake, though a small drip will keep him docile enough.

I continue sifting through his charts, familiarizing myself with his statistics. Nothing is quite as informative as experience... the organic lessons of firsthand practice in tenderizing a human body. Yet the numbers I pore through are still telling, and give me a good enough basis to know how far I can push the lad without killing him.

It isn't long before he grunts, and I look up to see him coming to. Ryu's jaw is slack, and he swallows heavily as he sits up. He shifts and growls, tugging weakly at the leather bonds about his ankles and wrists, shaking his head as if to free himself from the metal band about his temples.

Setting the papers down I order the researchers with a beckoning motion, and the three of us enter the chamber.

Ryu had been so young and impetuous when I first fought him, stoic and proud like a little cub pretending to be a lion. There'd been a rawness to his motions: a clean and untarnished strength honed from years of experience in the dojo, but untempered by the heat of a true battle. Even bruised and broken, gazing up at me with half his face veiled in blood he'd been calm, as if expecting me to grant him a warrior's death.

Somehow he'd still had some fight in him. Once he realized that I would give him no such clemency, that the soldiers were to make him submit with the electric prods and drag him to the van, he resisted. Three of them had been injured in the ensuing brawl, but in the end a jolt to the belly and one along the spine quieted him.

He stares at me through those stray, sweat-soaked locks of dark hair. His gaze is piercing, hard as iron even after so long under the probe. Most don't last more than a few hours, but somehow he'd pulled through, mind still perfectly intact.

He will be a fine specimen to add to my collection.

“Can you speak?” I ask as the lab workers unclip the cups from his fingers and toes and pull the band from his head.

His nose wrinkles slightly, but he says nothing.

“If you cannot speak, shake your head. But if you can, I expect an answer.”

With a snort, Ryu glances off to the side, as if I were of no consequence.

One can read much in the eyes. There is fear in the pupils, yearning passion in a glance, disgust and disdain in a single look. It is not merely the silence that speaks his mind: the way he refuses to meet my gaze is an act of resistance, a mark of insubordination. He refuses to relate to me in any way.

Reaching out with one hand, I begin to take a more personal touch with his training.

I grip the front of his _gi_ and twist the loose cloth. Turquoise fire lights my skin, and thick white linen blackens in an instant, falling apart as I tug. Ryu's eyes widen. He gasps in shock and struggles anew, twisting and huffing as the flames lick along his body, eating the ragged _gi_ with a ferocious hunger. Old, threadbare cloth turns to ash as those blue-green tongues lap away, twisting up his meaty shoulders and down along his legs. In seconds the ash itself breaks apart, black specks twisting in the air and disintegrating into fading wisps of smoke. The flames vanish, and Ryu trembles, his skin untouched by the psionic blaze.

He looks up at me now, bare to the skin, shivering with the fresh shame of his nakedness and the sterile chill of the laboratory air. His eyes are wide, fear beginning to creep in. Good. A little fear will make this much easier.

“Wh- what are you?”

“So you _can_ speak.” My smile is cold, my voice cruel and sharp as an assassin's blade. “But you must learn to _obey_.”

I raise my hands inches away from his brow, and from my fingertips I extend my will. Thin filaments of psychic energy flow from me and touch his scalp, sliding through his skin in ghostly threads. Ryu gasps at the odd tingle, trying to twist his head away from the alien sensation prickling through his skull.

It is an arduous process, one that had been mostly replaced by the mind probe for simplicity's sake. With a delicate touch I feel along his brain, clusters of neurons glittering like stars. I can taste his mind: the sour tang of fear, the metallic sharpness of willful resilience. Each individual is different, flesh mirroring the soul it encapsulates, yet the anatomical commonalities are easy to seek out with sufficient experience. It is both a science and an art, seeking the delicate points in his brain, gently weaving barbs into these centers and lighting them with a thin current of psionic energy.

Ryu's eyes widen instantly and he gasps, awestruck as I stimulate his pain centers. It starts gently at first, with bone-deep aches and strained flesh, the slow heat of a too-hot bath. Little by little I ramp up the intensity, adding the heat of branding irons and the rending sensations of metal hooks, until his soul seems to pulse and shiver within its shell.

There is only so much pain that can feed naturally through the spinal cord. Only so much sensation can flood through the pathways between the body and the brain. Too much and the excess is lost, just as too much water poured through a funnel will spill from the rim. Yet I stimulate those clusters through alternate paths, bypassing the natural limits of his body, boring past the shields of discipline and resilience he'd built over years of training. Pain, he had been taught, is an external force that could be resisted. Never had he known how it could bloom from within, like the unseen stab of a traitor's knife.

Here the brands I sear into his mind are hot and raw, undiluted and untarnished. It is the first footstep marring beach sand newly-smoothed by the tide. It is the sharp thrill of sodomizing a virgin, piercing and stretching flesh that had never been meant to be ravaged so.

Ryu writhes in his bonds, struggles growing in ferocity. His fingers claw at the armrests, nails squeaking as they scrape against the ice-cold metal frame. Pearly white teeth glisten with ropy spittle. Callused toes curl tight. Slowly I twist those psychic barbs, like tightening a hundred screws past the threshold so that the wood beneath begins to creak with the force of the tension, threatening to splinter.

It happens in pulsing increments. The first sob tears from his throat, like the rip of old cloth. A whimper, rising in pitch. Gradually that willful squirming breaks into a series of unconscious spasms, the thrashings of a body losing control. Those sobs begin to build one another, blending with his breathy panting, and in mere moments Ryu arches his back, seizing with a raw, primal shriek.

For a long time I let him scream. The walls of the chamber ring with his shrill howls: long, ragged notes in an aria of pain, interrupted only by his heavy gulps for air and the occasional retching sound. His cheeks had become soaked with tears, his lips and chin glisten with acrid bile and thick cords of saliva. Cold sweat drips from his skin, fat droplets crawling down his body like morning dew on glass.

The chair is solid steel held together by stout metal bolts, yet the joints still creak with the force of his convulsions. There is a soft pattering sound coming from beneath him, almost drowned out by the screams and the squeals of straining metal: the sound of warm piss dripping through the slotted base of the seat.

It is only when I complete a slow count to one hundred that I release the barbs. Those psychic knots grow slack, the scarlet flashes crackling between the nuclei of his mind grow dim. Yet even when the pain has almost fully receded the boy continues to howl. The cries taper off slowly, like the remnants of an echo, finally ending in whimpering sobs.

Ryu hiccups and shudders as I tuck a finger under his chin. His flesh is moist against mine.

“Now, I'll ask you again: can you speak?”

For a moment Ryu's eyes remain shut, pink and puffy as they are. Slow, shuddering breaths rattle from his throat as he tries to regather himself. Gradually he blinks away the tears, that wretched gaze staring past me as he speaks in a soft croak: “Y-y-yes...”

“Good,” I murmur, stroking his chin with one finger. “It is good to speak when I command you to.”

Once again I reach out with those blue-white threads, yet this time I slip them into the warm, tender spaces between the points I'd just activated before. I jab firmly here, in the pleasure centers of the brain, and they bloom with a delicious and urgent warmth beneath the pressure.

Ryu gasps as he feels it. His body jolts and tenses, initially shocked by the new tingle of sensation as if anticipating the piercing agony once again. Yet soon the pleasure sinks in, and the boy's pupils dilate, a soft and eager coo spilling from his unwilling lips. His flaccid penis twitches slightly, his nipples grow taut, his skin flushes... all the signs of a body eager to receive more. The warmth soothes away the residue of torture and stirs his loins.

I cock my head when I feel his consciousness squirming beneath my touch. Ryu knows what I am doing, and his mind is trying to pull away, to resist the carnal bliss every bit as much as it'd tried to escape the pain. The boy's eyebrows furrow. He shakes his head back and forth. Once again his jaw is clenched, but this is a tougher fight for him. It is harder to resist my manipulations when a part of him yearns for more.

Again I release him, more quickly this time. It is much easier to break a boy with pleasure than pain, yet it is far more dangerous. Pleasure can kill insidiously: let it reach a crescendo too quickly, and the boy would die with a bloody froth spilling from his lips, mind burned into a cinder in the fires of need.

The cold, clammy pallor is gone from his flesh now... his cheeks are warm and ruddy to the touch, his demeanor softened. Yet as he recuperates the determination returns to his gaze, and once more his eyes harden as they meet mine.

“There there, pet...” I say in a near-whisper, running my fingers through his hair. “You must not fight it. I know it is hard for a boy your age to learn this, but you must let go of your pride and obey your betters. It is only proper. Now, are you still going to resist me?”

Ryu clenches his jaw and growls. “You're... you're a monster. I saw what you've turned the other fighters into when they dragged me in here. I've seen what you've reduced them to!”

“You were _meant_ to see, boy. It was supposed to be your first lesson.”

“I won't be reduced to that! I'll _die_ before I let you turn me into one of your slaves!”

Again I thread my energies into his brain. It is quicker this time, a simple matter of linking to the dozens of little barbs I'd laid down previously. I twist them gently this time, tightening them carefully just to the threshold. Ryu jerks and makes a gagging sound as the pain returns at a moderate hum.

I draw psychic threads between the barbs, binding them together in a tangled mesh. The individual pain sensations merge, and gathering a ball of blue-white energy, I send a pulse through that net.

Pulling away I watch it in my mind's eye: a spiderweb of psychic strands and thorns, crackling and lighting as the nodes burst alight at random intervals, the stimulation cresting back and forth across the mesh like the pattern of a seizure. It is akin to one in truth: a constantly changing seizure of agony, searing through the clusters of his brain in ceaseless and unpredictable cycles.

Ryu twists and gasps, struggling and yanking violently at the straps that bind his wrists and ankles, as if all he needed to do was break free from the chair to stop the pain.

My hand shoots out, gripping a fistful of his sun-browned hair. Tugging back so he gazes up at me with those puffy red eyes I speak in a cold, commanding tone. “I'm not even touching your mind now, boy. For your insolence you will be left like this until I see fit to release you.”

One of the lab workers obediently offers me a warm towel, and I wipe the boy's sweat from my hands as I continue.

“Think well on this, boy. Do not take pride in the fact that you've resisted the probe and forced me to take a personal interest in your training. You're not the first to refuse submission, and those who fail to please me are not allowed to go to waste. A healthy kidney can command a high price, a heart or pair of lungs even more than that. As a warrior your body is the source of your pride, but I can take even that from you, piece by piece, and keep you alive with supportive care beyond what you think is possible.

“The body is just another machine, flesh its component parts. The Shadaloo has been learning how to take it apart and put it back together for decades now. We are masters of it, and one insubordinate little brat will be no real challenge to us.”

Ryu stares at me wide-eyed, mouth agape. His chest rises and falls, the tears spilling down his cheeks once more. Had he even hear what I said, or was he too absorbed in the torture to focus on the world around him? No matter.

The labworkers know what to do. They fit the gag into the boy's mouth, though it takes a little doing. It wouldn't do for him to try killing himself by swallowing his tongue. The dark hood goes over his head, the muscle relaxants will keep him from thrashing about and injuring himself.

He'll be transferred to a proper cell soon enough, but for now the lights in the chamber go off, the door shuts with a heavy slam. There, smothered in the darkness, alone and locked away from anyone who can help him, the boy will break.

By the time I leave to attend to other duties, he's already howling for mercy.


	2. Pleasure VS Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryu endures constant torture and resists, but will he succumb to pleasure?
> 
> WARNING: This story depicts scenes of rape and psychic torture for kinky porn purposes. Please practice safe consensual sex IRL and communicate clearly. Also if you don't have psychic powers please don't use them for evil thank you.

_Ryu_

I cradle the metal basin, my legs sprawled out behind me. The constant rush of water is my only companion: a persistent sound of it swirling down into the bowl. The toilet is my only source of water and my only relief.

Reaching in with a trembling hand I scoop up another palmful, bringing it to my lips to wash the sour residue away. There is no light in my tiny cell: not a stick of furniture, not even a blanket. Bison had burned every thread of clothing from my body, stripped me of my headband and my wrist guards. He's seized every possession of mine, leaving me naked and shivering in this concrete prison.

The darkness is absolute here. I have to feel around to find even the little slot where the guards pass me the occasional bowl of flavorless mush. At first I'd clawed at the walls, feeling for a seam or hinge, something to pry at even if it would be in vain. In my training I'd been taught to seek a oneness with my surroundings, to connect with the earth beneath my bare feet, drink in the wind gusting against my skin and through my hair. I would listen to the rustle of leaves and the songs of the cicadas and attune myself to the world.

But there is nothing here. There is only the sound of water, the darkness, the pain.

I don't know what is worse: the blackness smothering me, obliterating the difference between night and day, robbing me of my sense of time... or the agony twisting through me like barbed wire.

I try to tell myself that it's not real, that the pain is some trick of the mind: a phantasm that Bison had psychically implanted. Yet feeling it writhe through my body like a living thing... gnawing away at my bones, constantly shifting and changing so that each moment is a sliver of fresh suffering... I can't help but struggle against it, and in that struggle my mind and my body acknowledge it as real.

I clench my jaw, teeth aching, nostrils flaring with each breath. It feels as if every bone in my body had been broken. Not the sudden flash of pain the moment it fractures. No, it's the feeling of a break a few hours old, when sharp discomfort gives way to deep, throbbing agony as ragged spurs grind against one another and pierce the surrounding flesh from within. My entire body seems to pulse with it, and the whimpers spill from my lips.

As usual the feeling only lasts a little while before it changes and I arch my back, crying into the uncaring darkness as a cutting sensation stabs deep through my body. It impales me with a ripple, and instinctively I clutch my stomach. It feels as if my guts are being ripped out of me, intestines spooling from the wound like rope. There's a wetness at my belly, and for a moment terror seizes my chest at how real it seems, until I remember the dampness of my hand came from washing my face just moments ago.

It must've been weeks since Bison locked me in here with the pain. Weeks and months of thorns burrowing into my skin, of fire searing deep into my flesh, or icy blades and dull, pulsing aches that echo in my bones. Each would've been tolerable on its own, but every time I seize the pain and mentally push it away from me a new flavor of it cuts through me afresh.

Sleep comes to me in fitful snatches, when the torture wanes just enough that I can pass out. Yet with the darkness enveloping me I can barely tell the difference between the nightmares that torment me in slumber or the pain that wracks me when I'm awake. The barrier between the waking world and the surreal realm of sleep has crumbled. My whole existence had been transformed, the bonds of reality dissolved, and part of me had begun to believe that I'd died and been sent to hell.

I hear footsteps outside of my prison and I groan, eager for my bowl of gruel. It seems to come at random intervals. How long since they had last fed me? Two days? Three? I can no longer trust the discomfort gnawing in my belly as a sign of hunger. Indeed, I can barely keep the flavorless paste down... the hours after eating are a constant struggle to not retch it back up.

I recoil when spears of crimson light seem to stab through the outline of the small cell door. It'd been so long since I'd seen light that even the faint blood-red glow sears my eyes. It will take time for my vision to readjust. Yet the redness, soft and dreadful as it is, is strangely gentle on my eyes. With a heavy clang the door swings open, and thick hands grab my ankles. I kick softly and shield my face, wailing like a mouse torn from its nest as the guards drag me down the concrete floor.

__________

_**150216-071322:** Subject has been placed in isolation for five days under complete darkness coupled with irregular feeding schedule. Moderate levels of psionic induction leaves subject at 42% of pain threshold. Vital statistics moderately elevated, with average HR of 62 and BP of 133/102. Total loss of temporal senses observed._

_**150216-081743:** Subject removed from isolation. Exhibited violent paranoia, required sedation with bolus dose of anesthetic L22 at 15 mg. Upon examination subject was malnourished and suffered from slight hypothermia and required supportive care._

_Bison_

There's something alluring about an unconscious young man. That beautifully toned body is leaner now, his cheeks slightly gaunt. His skin is pale and damp with the sweat of a sickbed. Those smooth cheeks, once boyishly plump, are thinner now. The dark circles around his eyes make him look ever more haggard. I'd held his hand for a moment, stroked the soles of his feet. The flesh is rough and callused, knuckles hardened with years of training. Just examining his body you'd think that he was a tough one. Yet despite it all he is vulnerable and frail lying there on that cot, like a little boy.

Now and again he twitches. Reaching out with my mind I probe at the psychic net I'd laid over his brain. It's as active as before, a crackling spiderweb, lighting up the barbs hooked into his pain centers. Drugged as he is he feels it... even in the dark oblivion of sedation the boy can't escape the agony.

His eyelids flutter. The tempo of his breathing changes. A soft moan escapes his lips. The boy rouses with a whimper, limbs writhing, fingers clawing at the sheets. When he blinks awake the boy ends up staring into the distance, panting softly. There are no more tears in him, no more shrieks of agony, no more struggles against it.

I've seen this many a time with lab rats. Place the creature in a cage, the floor wired to deliver shocks now and again. At first the little beast will writhe. It will shriek. It will struggle and gnaw at the metal bars, desperate to escape its situation. Yet over time... hours, days, sometimes after a full week of this, the rat will stop struggling. It still feels the agony, it still suffers. Yet that instinctual response to thrash about, that urge to try to escape the torture, has been trained out of it. Its body finally recognizes that there is no use in resisting, not when the torment is inescapable.

Humans are quite the same. Not quite as docile nor meek, they simply become... resigned. I've seen broken young men strap themselves to the waterboard at a gesture, or calmly hand the scalpel to their torturers to be used on their bodies. They'll tear up, they'll moan, but they can no longer muster the will to fight the inevitable.

I glance up at him when I hear the clatter of metal links.

“Wh- what...” Ryu manages to choke out. He tugs weakly at his shackles. The fetters are locked solidly to the cot's metal frame.

“Glad to see you're awake, boy. Welcome to your new cell,” I grin. “Luxurious, isn't it? Especially when you compare it to the cramped little hole you've been locked in all this time.”

“Whatever this is... I won't... I won't submit to you. I will withstand any manner of torture your depraved mind can conceive of.”

“Then you lack imagination,” I chuckle. “Because I doubt you'll resist this next phase of your training.”

Sucking deeply on my middle finger I wet it with my saliva. I sit on the edge of the mattress, reaching between his legs. The boy snarls, eyes wide with shock as he tries to squeeze his thighs together, knees bucking inward, hips trembling. The cuffs bite into his ankles, and the boy grits his teeth. But it's all useless.

It is a simple matter to psychically probe his motor cortex, twining my mind around the right spot and squeezing it tight. Ryu's eyes grow wide and his legs tremble, limbs going slack as I paralyze those muscles. His eyes bulge in shock when all of a sudden his limbs go slack.

“You don't understand, do you? I control your body completely.”

I force my finger inside him.

It takes only a little effort to slip past that taut little sphincter. His torso twists, a sharp grunt slipping past his clenched teeth, face scrunching up as I penetrate him. It's only a small dose of discomfort compared to what's been coursing through him these past few days, yet it's still enough to make him whimper and writhe.

I release my grip on his brain, returning to him the control of his body. Immediately his buttocks tighten, his thighs clench. Rough heels scrape against the mattress, and callused toes curl as he squirms.

“Y-you're sick!“ he gasps.

I finger him roughly, sliding in and out, exploring the tight little tunnel of flesh. The softness within him squeezes down on me. Though his skin had grown cold and clammy with sweat, deep within there's a furnace of moist, slippery heat. I keep my finger embedded inside him even as he bucks into the air, throwing his head back and forth and snarling like an animal. In and out, in and out, sliding coarsely against that hard round bulb inside him.

Sure enough, a trickle of precum beads up at the tip of his flaccid little penis. Ryu's cheeks are pink, fresh tears glisten at the corners of his eyes. He yanks his wrists towards himself, yet his arms are stopped by the clatter of chains. He's trying to cover his face, to hide his shame from me as I violate him with just a single finger.

Leaning in I stroke his damp hair, and from my fingertips a hundred threads of psychic energy slip into his brain once more. I avoid the active mesh as best I can. It can be... interesting, to say the least, if the wires cross. Yet once more I touch those tender spots _between_ the pain centers.

His pupils dilate. His chest heaves. The boy's breaths come in hot shudders, and his efforts to pull his ass from me redouble violently. Desperate pants fill the air as he yanks at his bonds, ankles and wrists thrashing with enough force that the bruises will reach the bone.

The pleasure is blooming in him, a new and alien warmth against the storm of agony that surges through him now. It must feel strange, the need for more welling up against the torment thrashing those random clusters of nerves. I feel his mind instinctively gripping the new hum of sensations I feed him, using it as a lifeline to pull him from the boiling cauldron of pain. Yet just as quickly I feel him release. Reluctantly, slowly, his will trembling as if his grip were frozen for a moment. But then his mind lets go, shoving it away while trying his best to fend off the phantasmal sensations of searing and cutting and frozen spikes.

Not to be deterred, I increase the stimulation gradually, inching toward the level that would mimic a constant and full-bodied orgasm. Those pleasure centers glow with a warm, pulsing light, a checkerboard pattern of soft bliss and crackling pain. He can feel the it warming him from within: a low, tingling heat that seems to flow from his loins, radiating outwards until his skin burns with a smoldering itch. It is a simple matter to manipulate it by wiggling my finger inside his ass, stirring his prostate much as I would flick the surface of a pond. The pleasure ripples through his body from that firm gland, and the whimpering moans rattle in his throat.

“N... no...” he whines. The sweat beads on his forehead and speckles his chest from the strain of enduring the warring sensations within.

He hisses when I slip another finger in, stretching those rings of muscle encircling my digits. That knotted tunnel pulses around me as his heels kick and scrape against the mattress, squeezing in a tight and urgent rhythm. Whether it's to push me out or draw me deeper in I cannot tell.

The boy still resists. He still writhes and tries to send his mind somewhere else, attempting to dissociate his body so that he won't have to feel me seizing him from within and carving my mark into his soul. Yet his tears come freely, stimulated from the strain of fighting, flowing down his cheeks as he becomes all too aware of the urge to surrender to my touches.

“That's it, boy. Just give in, like so many others have...”

I feel something then, a soft echo in his mind. It's deeply hidden, a sense of familiarity, twisted and warped.

“Your body knows the touch of a man...” I breathe in realization. I chuckle, mildly disappointed that I wouldn't be the first to ravage his sweet little cherry. “My my... you aren't a virgin, then? Tell me, who was it? A lover your age, someone close to you? I can tell you aren't the type to instigate such things... must've been one fine friend who wanted to make love to you.”

Ryu's eyes widen, and a low, animal growl rumbles in his throat.

“Or someone else perhaps, when you were younger? An uncle? Your father? Someone bigger and stronger who took advantage of this grubby little boy...?”

“You... you shut your mouth!” he snaps. Yet his voice is breathy, his skin flushed. His eyes blaze, cleared of that intoxicated gloss.

“Well no matter...” I tuck a finger under his chin. “From now on, whenever you think of a man planting himself inside you, you will only ever think of me...”

It happens in an instant, as Ryu's upper body surges forward, eyes wild as a feral hound's. I'm not quite fast enough to pull away, and he bites down hard at the knife edge of my hand. I snarl, yanking from his mouth as his incisors pierce my flesh. My skin tears open under his teeth, and the blood is warm as it trickles down my wrist. A painful throb rings through my palm as I lift it to inspect the two red crescents he'd gouged into it.

His eyes are full of fire, and he spits a wad of bloody saliva at my face. I'm fast enough to react this time, and the dollop splashes against my upraised palm. Hot, violent fury surges in me, yet the thought of killing him is only a distant whisper in the back of my mind. The boy is far more useful to me alive than dead.

“Ah...” I grunt, resisting the urge to cradle my hand, trying to keep my voice steady. “It seems I've struck a nerve. Let me return the favor.”

Severing the flows of pleasure I crack his mind like a whip, feeding a storm of energy into the pain-mesh with the force of a train. He shrieks instantly as it roars through him, every single pain fiber glowing like a white-hot wire in a light bulb.

He can barely breathe. He shudders violently, until the whole bedframe rattles with his motions. I can feel the blood pounding in his arteries and veins, the rapid pace of his heartbeat. Eighty beats per minute. Ninety.

“Ungrateful little brat. Is this what you wanted, then? Is this what you prefer?”

It's as if every ounce of bone was being crushed, as if boiling lead were flowing through his veins. His skin, once hot with pleasure, now feels a blistering agony as if he'd been immersed in a vat of acid. He arches his back, fingers trembling, that howl trailing off into a strangled wheeze. A hundred fifty beats per minute. A hundred eighty.

His flaccid little dick, once beaded with the dew of his lust, spills forth a soft trickle of piss over his belly. As he arches his back it flows along the runnels of his abs, around the full curves of his pectoral muscles and into the well of his sternum. He mewls, eyes filled with terror and anguish. Two hundred twenty beats per minute. Two hundred thirty.

His heart is beginning to buckle under the strain, blood pumping too quickly for the chambers to fill between beats. His lungs are paralyzed from the torment, unable to draw in more than a trickle of breath. Those pretty brown eyes are wide and bloodshot, pupils dilated wide enough that he might've been staring into a terrible abyss.

Just as the boy's on the threshold of death I release the flood of power. For a moment the mesh of psychic hooks pulses and flickers, sputtering a few bright flashes of stimulation. And then it returns to its low, crackling hum.

Ryu collapses, shivering and drenched in sweat and piss. His eyes swim, unfocused and unseeing, as his head rolls to the side. For a moment he continues to tremble, but slowly his chest begins to rise and fall, as if he's only just now remembered to breathe. Blood flows from his nose. A red trickle drips from the corner of his mouth and onto the mattress.

I pull a kerchief from my pocket and wipe the sweat and blood from my hands. “We'll continue this tomorrow, boy. I think you learned much in a very short period of time on how to behave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear putting on some lofi retrowave helps motivate me to get writing shit done soooo much.


End file.
